


Food Networking

by BadFic



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Bad Fic, F/M, Kitchen Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadFic/pseuds/BadFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left with nothing but a pen, a pad of paper and a day of non-stop Food Network marathons, BadFic set out to explore the more illicit side of cooking shows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food Networking

The Food Network was a harsh master, and Rachael Ray felt the weight of its requirements.

She straightened the utensils on the counter, with an eye for where the cameras would be. It wouldn’t do to pull all of her implements from off-screen; the audience liked believing they could see everything. The artificial sunlight shining into the set reminded her that they also wanted to see bright happy people, even if she had to be on set at four a.m. for filming. 

“’ey, I was thinkin’ you might have some salt.”

Rachael startled at the voice. She whirled to see the man himself, Emeril, coming around the lighting board. “’at’s just a joke. ‘ow you holding up with these early shootings?”

A bit bewildered with his appearance, Rachael covered with bluster. “Still getting my examples done. Mind getting that whipping cream into shape?”

Emeril shrugged, and brushed past her to reach the Cuisenart. His hand on her back, even briefly, sent a charge through her skin. She stifled a gasp. “Do you always drop by other show’s filmings?”

“When the host catches my eye,” he answered. His slightly asymmetric mouth, Rachael noticed, gave him a wry appearance. “Nah, that ain’t me bein’ straight wit’ you.” He started the Cuisenart. “Didn’t feel like sleepin’. There’s something more home about a stage kitchen than my home.”

“I think I know what you mean,” she said. After a moment’s debate, she opened the oven, and crossed one ankle over the other, bending at the waist before it. She felt herself flush at the blast of heat. 

“I t’ought you might,” Emeril glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locked on the firm curve before him. “You don’t mind me sayin’…y’hear things about your man.”

“My husband and I have an arrangement. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t need his details, and certainly not on the news. But I love my husband.” Rachael straightened slowly, flexing her shoulders back and looking into Emeril’s eyes. “And I love our arrangement.”

Emeril stepped towards her, cupping her chin. She allowed a faint moan to pass through her lips before his mouth covered them. Rachael felt his tongue probing as her hands ran wild over his body, stalling out at the turgid evidence of his attraction. It only took her a moment to free his member from his professional white chef’s trousers. She stroked him idly with one hand, while playing with his curls with the other.

With swift motions, Emeril pushed her back a step and swung Rachael around, the button and zipper of her practical-yet-stylish blue jeans opening to him with no resistance. She kicked off her shoes and reveled in the sensation of his fingers hooking into the elastic of her panties, slowly baring her from the waist down.

With a grin of exhilaration, she turned back to him and backed away until she felt the island counter against her behind. He grinned at her, stepping forward, and she obligingly hopped up to sit on the counter, wedging her heels on the edge to spread her legs.

He didn’t enter her in a quick thrust, which disappointed Rachael. She worked her hips, trying to press more of him inside herself, but he remained rigidly determined to keep his pace shallow and teasing.

Rachael felt herself paw at his cheek, the action and her plaintive expression conveying the depth of her Need. He grinned at her roguishly, slowly picking up his pace before grabbing her ankles, pulling them up and behind him and -bam- kicking it up a notch.

The noise rent from Rachael’s throat was guttural and animal as she let her head back and bellowed to the overhead set lights. Emeril felt her thighs clench at his hips, her chest swelling as she gasped with each thrust. Carefully, he shifted his balance, avoiding interrupting his rhythm as best he could, and reaching for the bowl of sliced apricots on the prep station. Rachael’s mouth hung open as she gasped for air, and he traced the fruit along her lips. Its juices, so sweet and viscous, dribbled onto her tongue.

The flavor pierced the haze of her lust. Memories flashed before her eyes, memories of mangos and crème brule and pecan sandies, and how her desserts invariably ended.

Rachael Ray screamed to the heavens, her voice reaching so high it broke.

She came to her senses a moment later, sprawled across her island counter. Emeril stood before her, his hand sliding wetly along his length. It wasn’t the slow stroke of a moment’s reprieve so much as the quick, purposeful motions of completion.

Rachael poured herself off of the counter landing in a crouch before him. She took both his hands and pressed them behind his back. She explored his member with her tongue, flicking into each crevasse and along every curve. Then she gazed up at him with the smile that had won her fame, and swallowed his member.

Emeril jerked with delight as he felt her nose press into his belly. Her motions were deft and accurate, and when his hips began to buck of their own accord Rachael encouraged the motion.

His moans became audible, and Rachael tasted the salty tang which brought even more memories to the fore. She pushed them aside and released his member, reaching up to stroke it with both hands while running her tongue along the underside.

Emeril cried out as his seed spurted out from under her ministrations. Rachael directed his manhood up so that the stains fell on his own white chef’s tunic. Emeril leaned back against the refrigerator while Rachael made a show of cleaning her fingers, then taking his diminishing member back into her mouth. 

She’d broken open a bottle of wine intended for the morning’s shoot by the time they both sat exhausted against the cabinets. They clinked glasses, and Emeril spoke first.

“I have a place. A little apartment uptown.”

“Are you propositioning me?” Rachael asked, running her fingers up her bare, wet thighs.

“No,” Emeril replied, faux offended. “An’ I’m insulted you’d think me so crude. I was just going to offer to make _you_ dinner.” 

Rachael bit her lip as she considered his choice of emphasis. “Can I bring the apricot?”


End file.
